Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law (27 page)

And the Company sent up as one man a rousing cheer. One humble member, overcome by guilt, returned a clutch of eggs to the goodwife from whose coops he had removed them, muttering his most profuse apologies and weeping tears of deepest regret, but she begged him to keep them, and implored besides the grateful and hungry men of the Company to take all the eggs she had, and sent up in a higher pitch, frail hands pressed together, her own thanks to the king and his faithful and diligent servant his Eminence the Arch Lector for delivering she and her neighbours from the tyranny and foul depredations of the dread rebel.

At this moment, and your humble servant must admit he brushes away a tear of his own at the recollection, the corpse of noble Sufeen was discovered among the dead. His companions, with many expressions of manly sorrow and remembrances of his high qualities, let fall a river of tears. Nicomo Cosca, as in all things, was first among their number.

‘Oh, good Sufeen!’ The general beat upon his blood-spattered breastplate. ‘Oh, great heart and worthy friend! The regret of this sacrifice shall bear upon me until my dying day!’

The brave scout had fought like a champion, surrounded by craven enemies who had fallen upon him under flag of parley, and killed more than a dozen filthy rebels before they cut him down. A satchel of ancient coins was found near his mutilated body and instantly surrendered to the captain general.

‘Take an inventory of this money, Sergeant Friendly,’ spoke Cosca.

‘I shall count it,’ said Cosca’s faithful henchman, nodding his assent.

‘It shall be distributed according to our Rule of Quarters! Let one quarter be divided among the men in recognition of their brave work today! Let another be used to commission a competent stonecutter to produce a timeless monument to brave Sufeen! Let the third be spent in the purchase of supplies from the townsfolk, and let the final quarter be given to them for the repair of damage done by the rebels, and the founding of a hospital for the orphan children of those who have stood martyr to the cause!’

Another rousing cheer went up from the throats of the mercenaries for, though many were men of low origins, they all were men of high character, and base greed was foreign to their giving natures, gain always the very least of their motivations. They instantly began the work of returning the settlement to its original fine condition, extinguishing a fire the rebels had set in their extremity, and putting right the uncouth damage wrought upon the buildings and public spaces during the occupation.

I reported earlier that Cosca was the best friend to have, but he was also the worst enemy, and implacable in his punishment of wrongdoers. It gives me no pride, but at the same time no shame, to report that the severed heads of several of the rebel ringleaders were left mounted above the gates of the town as a dread warning to others. No one took the least pleasure in this awful operation, but this was the Near Country, far beyond the borders of civilisation, and outside the jurisdiction of Union, or even of Imperial justice, if there is any such thing in that benighted nation. Cosca, in the light of his vast experience, judged that strong lessons now might spare much bloodshed later. Such is the terrible arithmetic of warfare.

‘We must be merciful whenever possible,’ said the fair-minded general. ‘We must!’ And he struck one solid palm with one strong fist. ‘But, sad to say, one cannot afford to indulge oneself with too much mercy.’ He looked now towards those grisly warnings mounted, with expressions horribly vacant, and already attracting avian attentions, upon the town’s palisade. ‘Heads on spikes,’ he said, shaking his own. ‘A most terrible and regrettable necessity.’

‘Your forbearance does you much credit, General,’ spoke the good Inquisitor Lorsen. ‘His Majesty’s Inquisition demands that the guilty be sternly punished and the innocent protected.’

The townsfolk implored Cosca to remain, and offered him flowers and, indeed, gold to stay within their settlement, but he demurred. ‘Other towns of the Near Country yet chafe under the rebel yoke,’ he said. ‘I can have no rest until Superior Pike’s noble mission is fulfilled and the treacherous leader of the rebels, foul Conthus, is delivered in chains into the hands of the Inquisition to await the king’s justice.’

‘But will you and your men not take your ease for just one night, General Cosca?’ the town’s headman enquired. ‘For but one happy hour? With the triumphant liberation of our humble burg your labours have surely for the time being reached their end?’

‘My thanks,’ replied the great man, laying a heavy hand upon his shoulder, ‘but I have taken my ease too long already.’ That famous soldier of fortune, Nicomo Cosca, now worked the waxed tips of his proud black moustaches to deadly points between finger and thumb and directed his piercing gaze towards the western horizon. ‘If I have learned one thing in forty years of warfare, it is that doing right … has no end.’

All well enough, I suppose, but I was hoping for more. It’s dowdy. It’s bland. I’m all for realism in its place, report the facts and so forth, but you can’t expect to make the readers gasp with this manner of understatement. Did I not tell you it hasn’t been boring?

For pity’s sake, Sworbreck, work it up! More heroism, more dazzle, more blood in the action there, a larger-than-life quality! More villainous, the fiendish rebels! A rescued maiden or two? Put your back into it! Give it a bit more zing!

Then strip out any mention of that bloody notary, if you please. Expunge that treacherous bastard from the record!

And capitalise Captain General.

Sipani, Spring 592

D
amn, but she hated Sipani.

The bloody blinding fogs and the bloody slapping water and the bloody universal sickening stink of rot. The bloody parties and masques and revels. Fun, everyone having bloody fun, or at least pretending to. The bloody people were worst of all. Rogues, every man, woman and child. Liars and fools, the lot of them.

Carcolf hated Sipani. Yet here she was again. Who, then, she was forced to wonder, was the fool?

Braying laughter echoed from the mist ahead and she slipped into the shadows of a doorway, one hand tickling the grip of her sword. A good courier trusts no one, and Carcolf was the very best, but in Sipani she trusted … less than no one.

Another gang of pleasure-seekers blundered from the murk, a man with a mask like a moon pointing at a woman who was so drunk she kept falling over on her high shoes. All of them laughing, one of them flapping his lace cuffs as though there never was a thing so funny as drinking so much you couldn’t stand up. Carcolf rolled her eyes skyward and consoled herself with the thought that behind the masks they were hating it as much as she always did when she tried to have fun.

In the solitude of her doorway, Carcolf winced. Damn, but she needed a holiday. Fun used to be her middle name. Now look. She was becoming a sour arse. Or, indeed, had become one and was getting worse. One of those people who held the entire world in contempt. Was she turning into her bloody father?

‘Anything but that,’ she muttered.

The moment the revellers tottered off into the night she ducked from her doorway and pressed on, neither too fast nor too slow, soft boot heels silent on the dewy cobbles, her unexceptional hood drawn down to an inconspicuous degree, the very image of a person with just the average amount to hide. Which in Sipani was quite a bit.

Over to the west somewhere, her armoured carriage would be speeding down the wide lanes, wheels striking sparks as they clattered over the bridges, stunned bystanders leaping aside, driver’s whip lashing at the foaming flanks of the horses, the dozen hired guards thundering after, streetlamps gleaming upon their dewy armour. Unless the Quarryman’s people had already made their move, of course: the flutter of arrows, the scream of beasts and men, the crash of the wagon leaving the road, the clash of steel, and finally the great padlock blown from the strongbox with blasting powder, the choking smoke wafted aside by eager hands and the lid flung back to reveal … nothing.

Carcolf allowed herself the smallest smile and patted the lump against her ribs. The item, stitched up safe in the lining of her coat.

She gathered herself, took a couple of steps and sprang from the canal-side, clearing three strides of oily water to the deck of a decaying barge, timbers creaking under her as she rolled and came smoothly up. To go around by the Fintine Bridge was quite the detour, not to mention a well-travelled and well-watched way, but this boat was always tied here in the shadows, offering a short cut. She had made sure of it. Carcolf left as little to chance as possible. In her experience, chance could be a real bastard.

A wizened face peered out from the gloom of the cabin, steam issuing from a battered kettle. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Nobody.’ Carcolf gave a cheery salute. ‘Just passing through!’ And she hopped from the rocking wood to the stones on the far side of the canal and was away into the mould-smelling mist. Just passing through. Straight to the docks to catch the tide and off on her merry way. Or her sour-arsed one, at least. Wherever Carcolf went, she was nobody. Everywhere, always passing through.

Over to the east that idiot Pombrine would be riding hard in the company of four paid retainers. He hardly looked much like her, what with the moustache and all, but swaddled in that ever-so-conspicuous embroidered cloak of hers he did well enough for a double. He was a penniless pimp who smugly believed himself to be impersonating her so she could visit a lover, a lady of means who did not want their tryst made public. Carcolf sighed. If only. She consoled herself with the thought of Pombrine’s shock when those bastards Deep and Shallow shot him from his saddle, expressed considerable surprise at the moustache, then rooted through his clothes with increasing frustration and finally no doubt gutted his corpse only to find … nothing.

Carcolf patted that lump once again and pressed on with a spring in her step. Here went she, down the middle course, alone and on foot, along a carefully prepared route of back streets, of narrow ways, of unregarded short cuts and forgotten stairs, through crumbling palaces and rotting tenements, gates left open by surreptitious arrangement and, later on, a short stretch of sewer which would bring her out right by the docks with an hour or two to spare.

After this job she really had to take a holiday. She tongued at the inside of her lip where a small but unreasonably painful ulcer had lately developed. All she did was work. A trip to Adua, maybe? Visit her brother, see her nieces? How old would they be now? Ugh. No. She remembered what a judgemental bitch her sister-in-law was. One of those people who met everything with a sneer. She reminded Carcolf of her father. Probably why her brother had married the bloody woman …

Music was drifting from somewhere as she ducked beneath a flaking archway. A violinist either tuning up or of execrable quality. Neither would have surprised her. Papers flapped and rustled on a wall sprouting with moss, ill-printed bills exhorting the faithful citizenry to rise up against the tyranny of the Snake of Talins. Carcolf snorted. Most of Sipani’s citizens were more interested in falling over than rising up, and the rest were anything but faithful.

She twisted about to tug at the seat of her trousers, but it was hopeless. How much did you have to pay for a new suit of clothes before you avoid a chafing seam in the very worst place? She hopped along a narrow way beside a stagnant section of canal, long out of use, gloopy with algae and bobbing rubbish, plucking the offending fabric this way and that to no effect. Damn this fashion for tight trousers! Perhaps it was some kind of cosmic punishment for her paying the tailor with forged coins. But then Carcolf was considerably more moved by the concept of local profit than that of cosmic punishment, and therefore strove to avoid paying for anything wherever possible. It was practically a principle with her, and her father always said that a person should stick to their principles—

Bloody hell, she really was turning into her father.

‘Ha!’

A ragged figure sprang from an archway, the faintest glimmer of steel showing. With an instinctive whimper Carcolf stumbled back, fumbling her coat aside and drawing her own blade, sure that death had found her at last. The Quarryman one step ahead? Or was it Deep and Shallow, or Kurrikan’s hirelings … but no one else showed themselves. Only this one man, swathed in a stained cloak, unkempt hair stuck to pale skin by the damp, a mildewed scarf masking the bottom part of his face, bloodshot eyes round and scared above.

‘Stand and deliver!’ he boomed, somewhat muffled by the scarf.

Carcolf raised her brows. ‘Who even says that?’

A slight pause, while the rotten waters slapped the stones beside them. ‘You’re a woman?’ There was an almost apologetic turn to the would-be robber’s voice.

‘If I am, will you not rob me?’

‘Well … er …’ The thief deflated somewhat, then drew himself up again. ‘Stand and deliver anyway!’

‘Why?’ asked Carcolf.

The point of the robber’s sword drifted uncertainly. ‘Because I have a considerable debt to … that’s none of your business!’

‘No, I mean, why not just stab me and strip my corpse of valuables, rather than giving me the warning?’

Another pause. ‘I suppose … I hope to avoid violence? But I warn you I am entirely prepared for it!’

He was a bloody civilian. A mugger who had blundered upon her. A random encounter. Talk about chance being a bastard. For him, at least. ‘You, sir,’ she said, ‘are a shitty thief.’

‘I, madam, am a gentleman.’

‘You, sir, are a dead gentleman.’ Carcolf stepped forward, weighing her blade, a stride-length of razor steel lent a ruthless gleam by a lamp in a window somewhere above. She could never be bothered to practise, but nonetheless she was beyond passable with a sword. It would take a great deal more than this stick of gutter trash to get the better of her. ‘I will carve you like—’

The man darted forward with astonishing speed, there was a scrape of steel and before Carcolf even thought of moving, the sword was twitched from her fingers and skittered across the greasy cobbles to plop into the canal.

‘Ah,’ she said. That changed things. Plainly her attacker was not the bumpkin he appeared to be, at least when it came to swordplay. She should have known. Nothing in Sipani is ever quite as it appears.

‘Hand over the money,’ he said.

‘Delighted.’ Carcolf plucked out her purse and tossed it against the wall, hoping to slip past while he was distracted. Alas, he pricked it from the air with impressive dexterity and whisked his sword-point back to prevent her escape. It tapped gently at the lump in her coat.

‘What have you got … just there?’

From bad to much, much worse. ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Carcolf attempted to pass it off with a false chuckle but that ship had sailed and she, sadly, was not aboard, any more than she was aboard the damn ship still rocking at the wharf for the voyage to Thond. She steered the glinting point away with one finger. ‘Now, I have an extremely pressing engagement, so if—’ There was a faint hiss as the sword slit her coat open.

Carcolf blinked. ‘Ow.’ There was a burning pain down her ribs. The sword had slit her open, too. ‘Ow!’ She subsided to her knees, deeply aggrieved, blood oozing between her fingers as she clutched them to her side.

‘Oh … oh no. Sorry. I really … really didn’t mean to cut you. Just wanted, you know …’

‘Ow.’ The item, now slightly smeared with Carcolf’s blood, dropped from the gashed pocket and tumbled across the cobbles. A slender package perhaps a foot long, wrapped in stained leather.

‘I need a surgeon,’ gasped Carcolf, in her best I-am-a-helpless-woman voice. The grand duchess had always accused her of being overdramatic, but if you can’t be dramatic at a time like this, when can you? It was likely she really did need a surgeon, after all, and there was a chance the robber would lean down to help her and she could stab the bastard in the face with her knife. ‘Please, I beg you!’

He loitered, eyes wide, the whole thing plainly gone further than he had intended. But he edged closer only to reach for the package, the glinting point of his sword still levelled at her.

A different and even more desperate tack, then. She strove to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘Look, take the money, I wish you joy of it.’ Carcolf did not, in fact, wish him joy, she wished him rotten in his grave. ‘But we will both be far better off if you leave that package!’

His hand hovered. ‘Why, what’s in it?’

‘I don’t know. I’m under orders not to open it!’

‘Orders from who?’

Carcolf winced. ‘I don’t know that either, but—’

Kurtis took the packet. Of course he did. He was an idiot, but not so much of an idiot as that. He snatched up the packet and ran. Of course he ran. When didn’t he?

He tore down the alleyway, heart in mouth, jumped a burst barrel, caught his foot and went sprawling, almost impaled himself on his own drawn sword, slithered on his face through a slick of rubbish, scooping a mouthful of something faintly sweet before staggering up, spitting and cursing, snatching a scared glance over his shoulder—

There was no sign of pursuit. Only the mist, the endless mist, whipping and curling like a thing alive.

He slipped the packet, now somewhat slimy, into his ragged cloak and limped on, clutching at his bruised buttock and still struggling to spit that rotten-sweet taste from his mouth. Not that it was any worse than his breakfast had been. Better, if anything. You know a man by his breakfast, his fencing master always used to tell him.

He pulled up his damp hood with its faint smell of onions and despair, plucked the purse from his sword and slid blade back into sheath as he slipped from the alley and insinuated himself among the crowds, that faint snap of hilt meeting clasp bringing back so many memories. Of training and tournaments, of bright futures and the adulation of the crowds. Fencing, my boy, that’s the way to advance! Such knowledgeable audiences in Styria, they love their swordsmen there, you’ll make a fortune! Better times, when he had not dressed in rags, or been thankful for the butcher’s leftovers, or robbed people for a living. He grimaced. Robbed
women
. If you could call it a living. He stole another furtive glance over his shoulder. Could he have killed her? His skin prickled with horror. Just a scratch. Just a scratch, surely? But he had seen blood. Please, let it have been a scratch! He rubbed his face as though he could rub the memory away, but it was stuck fast. One by one, things he had never imagined, then told himself he would never do, then that he would never do again, had become his daily routine.

He checked once more that he wasn’t followed then slipped from the street and across the rotting courtyard, the faded faces of yesterday’s heroes peering down at him from the newsbills. Up the piss-smelling stairway and around the dead plant. Out with his key and he wrestled with the sticky lock.

‘Damn it, fuck it, shit it— Gah!’ The door came suddenly open and he blundered into the room, nearly fell again, turned and pushed it shut, and stood a moment in the smelly darkness, breathing hard.

Who would now believe he’d once fenced with the king? He’d lost. Of course he had. Lost everything, hadn’t he? He’d lost two touches to nothing and been personally insulted while he lay in the dust, but still, he’d measured steels with His August Majesty. This very steel, he realised, as he set it against the wall beside the door. Notched, and tarnished, and even slightly bent towards the tip. The last twenty years had been almost as unkind to his sword as they had been to him. But perhaps today marked the turn in his fortunes.